Well hello, all, I’m your maestro ceremonious
they call me Lokonious, purveyor of the odious
so sit back, relax, and celebrate the… atonalness?

A: Andante con fuoco
We’re goin’ a cappella so let me say first
your style’s ba-roke, now let’s get on with the verse
you’re all up in the scale with a falsetto pitch
hittin’ soprano like a castrato *****!
my mind is sharp, while you’re stuck outta key
my rhythm’s all natural, you can’t find a beat
you need some help ’cause you’re out on your own
find that ****** on a subway, the metro-nome

B: Allegro con brio
throw down the fermata and hold up a minute
your ****’s a cacophony, no way to spin it
and son, i ain’t broke, my style’s all classical
you just can’t register that my words are magical
I spit rhymes in fantasy, can’t you see that you’re beat?
And they thought an allegro was unfit for elegy

A: Moderato col legno
well as for your girl, it may sound corny
the ***** loves my brass ’cause she’s: oh so *****
dispel your illusion, i got one more
your girl’s like a crime show… easy to score

B: Allegretto grazioso
your intellect is minor and your insults are bassless
your composition’s hardly a harmony: graceless
your cymbalism’s trite, and your motif’s unknown
an unfocused opus full of dissonant drones

A: Affrettando agitato
get out my face with your unnatural rap
you spit cold air and your lyrics are flat
you’ve got no harm while my canon’s a gat
so work on your refrain, ‘fore I bust da cap-OOOHHHHH

B: Coda
pull your weak crap, ’cause you’re outta your mode
such imperfect rhymes that we’re calling a cod-a
no time for the fanfare, you’re trying my patience
an end to your requiem, bring out the cadence

So that’s their story, best not get involved
their fight’s an augmented fourth: difficult to resolve

Someone once told me that I am a slow song starting to accelerate.  
At Larghissio, I have a calm demeanor.
Not the calm of a warm sunny day.
But a somber calm where I slowly slit a person's throat whilst listening to classical music.
Grave is where things gets mixed with feelings but where I refused to acknowledge it.
The trend today is dead inside.
But hey, the shade my mother threw at me about my grades during dinner is at the back of my head.
Largo is a little dangerous.
My father is trying to communicate to the four-year-old little girl that was swallowed down along with his drugs.
I am no longer dead inside when I acknowledge that it's wrong.
Adagietto is a fancy word.
So is dementia.  
Now, it's harder to stand in front of the grandfather who can't remember me.
Hurt is an emotion.
Andante means I am hurt.
With hurt, I think one loses rationale.
Moderato is for moderate.
But, at moderato, hurt has led me to my anxiety cabin.
Hereon, the walls I have created around me becomes a physical embodiment when all I do is stay in my room.
I want to slow down the pace.
But now, I am starting to hear more than one song.
Some of it, I am singing on my own.
All of it, at Allegro.
My blanket was my hero at Allegro.
I named it 'Depression' and I wore it all the time to cover my ears.
As for rationale, there being none, I found myself and all my songs at Vivace.
The most vivid was my mothers'.
She'd often peek through my walls.
Sing a heavy metal song about my disobedience of wearing depression.
When she got tired, she'd stop singing.
Now, I am left with my songs at Allegro and the distant voice of my grandfather who sings for himself at Larghissio.
The more I try to grasp the lullaby of my grandfather, the faster my songs rise to Vivace.
I am strong but not strong enough to sing multiple songs at Vivace.
Respectively, often these days, I fear that all of my songs would abruptly stop at Presto.
But, on most days, I think about falling back to the next song on your playlist, and it doesn't matter at what tempo.

the Diabelli Variations play on the stereo
     you in your world me in my own
with off-beat accents and a grand and solemn glow
     no one has come to see us, alone,
the theme in time begins a timeless, elegant echo
     although we might not know
maybe a little pompous as the mock-heroics grow
    our reflections come and gone
five, six, seven play in their various allegro
     we may never need be shown
matching our own Tempo di Menuetto moderato
     what has come to us unknown

Here in the fledgling of dawn, when the sky
has yet to decide what color to wear,
that old electric motor of the ceiling fan
sets its tempo—swinging marcia moderato
but still I dawdle with the patter of rain
lazy and scattered, from thin watercolor clouds

The city is asleep and the buses don't run
but down the street, Lorena is late
for work—even on Sunday the march carries.
Henslow's sparrows are readying to fly away
(they know nothing of Sundays either)
and the ceiling fan plans on in circles

They will return, and Lorena will
be home in the evening
but the transient sky will always
blend back into geyser blue
and perhaps I too will sway and waver
and dally along the coast at low tide
straining my eyes to remember the colors
in every moment of melded sky
dancing to the ceiling fan in 6/8 time

Je te dis Vous
Ta Majesté
Car vous êtes plurielle
Je vous dis tu
Votre Seigneurie
Car tu es singulière.
Tu ou vous
Vous ou tu
Êtes la dyade
La deuxième personne
Les sœurs siamoises
Démultipliées dans le labyrinthe
De la conjugaison
À tous les temps du verbe et de la chair
Et c'est pour cette raison unique
Que je vous t'aime
Et que je te vous aime
Dodécaphoniquement
Et que je vous conjugue
Et que je vous hume les notes du cou
Et que je te renifle les lunes en rut
Et que les temps s'abolissent
Que les silences deviennent bis
Et les pauses deviennent ut
Et que les dièses et les bémols ouvrent
Les clés de fa et les portées
Et que moderato cantabile je respire
Les noires et les blanches
Les croches et les rondes
Du bas du dos de dentelle
De votre tienne excellence
Ad libitum...

Ego Più Aggro Versus
            
Moderato Più Tempo,

Fagotto Obbligato

Crescendo Diminuendo

Vibrato Allegro.